The Artist and The Consulting Detective
by NoImNotGinnyButImGinger
Summary: John Watson is an artist. Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective. This is an account of their adventures.


It was one of those rare sunny days in London. The sky was blue, and puffy white clouds floated leisurely across it. People were out and about, eager to get some errands done while the weather was nice. Everywhere was crowded- people were crammed into shops, cars were held back in long lines of traffic, and the noises of the city permeated the air. Despite all of the crowds, everyone was especially cheerful today. Well, everyone except one man, who was limping slowly down a sidewalk, leaning heavily on a cane. While everywhere else was bright and shining that day, it looked as if a rain cloud had settled over this man's head. He headed a bit further down the street, and entered a building at last.

* * *

"Mr. John Watson."

"Hello." John sat down in a chair, propped his cane against the side of it, and reached across the table sat in front of it to shake the hand of his therapist. He was happy that he could finally rest his leg.

The woman in front of him got straight down to business. "So… John. I have a proposition for you." John raised an eyebrow, curious as to what she meant.

"You won't have to meet me back here in person." Her patient's face lit up. "But, I will need you to do something for me. I have many of my patients keep journals for me- it helps them relax and lets me know how they are doing. But I want to try something different with you. I want you to keep an art portfolio."

John frowned, then laughed in disbelief. "Me? Drawing things; painting things? Yeah, trust me, that won't work out well. I can draw as well as a three year old."

His therapist shrugged. "Art is art. All you would do is paint or draw something that happened to you recently. You might as well give it a try. I think you would find it worth not having to come back here. You would just have to post your art to a website, maybe a blog." After some more convincing, he gave her his consent, and then went on his way, still wondering how he, John Watson, could possibly make anything worth showing his therapist, let alone putting on a blog for other people to see.

As he walked back to his tiny, lonely apartment, he decided he might as well get some art supplies. He turned down a street full of shops, and walked into the first art supply store he could find. Not really knowing what to do and not wanting to have to speak to the young workers at the store, he bought a pad of paper and a bunch of basic-looking pencils, paintbrushes, and paint. Not the best quality, but they were cheap and would have to do for the time being. He exited the shop and walked further down the street, leaning heavily on his cane, intending to get some tea or coffee at the local café.

"John! John Watson! Is that you?" John turned to see his old friend, Mike Stamford, walking quickly over to where he was standing. "Haven't seen you in a while! I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

"Got shot."

"Oh. Hmm. Well, would you like to go get some tea down at the café?"

John smiled. "Sure, I was just about to do that myself." The two men finished the short walk to the café, sat down, and started catching up on each others' lives. Mike had been busy at his job as a medical teacher. John filled him in on the specifics of his health condition, and the assignment that his therapist had given him.

"I don't know what she expects of me. I can barely write legibly. I doubt I could create anything worth showing her… And also, my flat is _so _tiny_. _It's gonna be fun trying to arrange all of my supplies up there, and finding space to paint and draw." He sighed. "I wouldn't mind getting a new flat."

Mike grinned mischievously. "You're not the first to tell me that today. I have a friend that's looking for a new place to stay, as well. You two should share a flat; split the costs. It'd make it easier on the two of you."

John frowned. "I don't know… I don't even know the guy's name. Plus, who would want to share a flat with _me_?"

Mike's eyes were sparkling as he said, "Oh, I think that this man wouldn't mind. He is a bit odd though, just to warn you. I think you would enjoy living with him, if you could put up with him." John's frown grew deeper at his last statement. "In fact, we could meet him right now, if you'd like. He's probably down in the labs at St. Bart's."

John shrugged. "All right. I'm not making any guarantees, though. You're making this guy sounds like he's off his rocker."

Mike laughed. "Oh, no. He's perfectly fine. A right genius, he is. But…ah, I think it'd be easier to show you. Come on John, let's go meet your soon-to-be flat mate!" The two men stood up and pushed in their chairs; Mike walking cheerily out the door as Watson limped across the café. What had he gotten himself in to? For all he knew, this man Mike was talking about could be a complete nutter. And what did he mean, "_if you could put up with him_?" He had a bad feeling about this, but in the pit of his stomach he felt a little jolt of excitement. At least _something _interesting was happening in his dull life.

* * *

Mike and John finally reached the labs, and strolled inside to find a man bent over his desk, looking through a microscope. Without looking up, he greeted them. "Hello, Mike. Hello, Mike's friend." John frowned. How had he known that was Mike? The man finally stood up after adjusting a dial on the microscope. He was tall and extremely thin, and he wore a simple but expensive-looking purple shirt and black slacks. He was deathly pale, and he had strikingly blue almond eyes and dark hair that curled crazily.

John strode up to him, and shook his hand. He looked up into his eyes, alarmed at the height difference. He had seemed shorter when he was across the room. "Hi, I'm John Watson." He did his best to look pleased to see him, and not suspicious of what this man could possibly have wrong with him. He didn't seem like a nutter.

The man nodded, and then gave John the once-over. John tensed up, wondering what the man was thinking. Wasn't it rude to do that? He saw his eyes focus in on his wrists. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked, confused. "Sorry?"

The man rolled his eyes, as if John had inconvenienced him in some terrible way. "I asked, _Afghanistan_ or _Iraq_?"

"A…Afghanistan. How did you- I mean, what…Mike, did you tell him that?"

John looked over to see Mike standing at the door, stifling a laugh. He smiled at him and shook his head. "Nope."

* * *

DUN DUN DUNNN. WHAT EVER COULD HAPPEN NEXT? So yeah. That's chappie one. Woot. I have no idea where I am going with this :DDD


End file.
